Inner Monologue
by htdcd
Summary: All 7 years from Snape's perspective three ways: if things went the way they went, if things went differently, and if things went WAY differently...ranges from mild to mature.
1. Chapter 1  Year 1

_Disclaimer: All intellectual & physical property rights to Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling & Warner Bros._

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><p><strong>Inner Monologue: <strong>**Take 1: If it went the way it went, rated 16+ (platonic)**

**Year 1: Harry Potter and Why Must My Life Be So Shitty?**

_Life isn't fair, or so I've heard. _

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><p>I have been rebuffed. I have been dreading this night for a decade. Has it already arrived? Must time pass so quickly? They say it does when one is having fun. Right. As if the last decade has been anything but miserable. I have begged, pleaded, and offered exchanges I would have never imagined to skip this evening's Welcome Feast, but to no avail. Albus has insisted I attend. I am now forced to seethe inwardly as I sit at the head table and await the first years. Next to that imbecile Quirrell. What in Zeus' name does he think he's doing, wearing that ridiculous turban on his head? Must I be forced each year to work with inane fools who are woefully under-qualified for their positions? Of course, I myself am overqualified. You know what they say, those who can, do. Those who can't…well, I am reminded, looking over at the old fool on his throne, that in my case, it's more of a 'those who fuck up royally are enslaved forever in repentance.' Ah, yes, the doors of the Great Hall open with McGonagall at the lead of the reasons for my future headaches. How I love that woman. Her lips pressed into a fine line even in the happiest of expressions, the way she talks to the staff as if they are still students in her Transfiguration class…But my sarcastic musings distract me for only so long. I find myself searching the pool of new students…searching. A mop of red hair. Another Weasley. As if this year couldn't get any worse. And Draco. *Sigh* I had forgotten Lucius said he would be here this year. I look at my dinner knife and wonder if perhaps it is sharp enough to slit my wrists now and get it over with. And then I see him. Immediately, I feel an invisible foot make contact with my gut. I instantly begin a list of a hundred ways to torture that old man to death. He told me she had her eyes. But what does that really mean? You have your father's nose, your grandma's ears, really, it's just a way for people to feel connected, but nothing's ever really a true replica. Maybe sometimes a ghosting close to the original, but…Dear God, it's like they were transplanted from her directly into his face. It's like looking at her once more, after all this time. My heart skips a beat. But that's not why I want to kill the old man. No. He conveniently failed to mention that while his eyes are his mother's, he is an exact replica of his father in <span>every single other way<span>. Same hair, same glasses, same lopsided smile, same wretched personality, no doubt. I have truly entered my own personal hell.

I am doing my best to not kill the brat whenever he is in my presence. Even his voice is reminiscent of James. And, as if things could not possibly be worse, he has been befriended by the newest Weasley (will they ever stop breeding?) and a ridiculous girl who thinks it is her duty and God-given right to memorize any fact she can get her hands on. It's like the Three Musketeers from some awful shop of horrors. Again, I am doing my best. But even the best of us fall off the wagon, don't we? Perhaps I can do just enough to keep myself satisfied in my desire to torment the boy without drawing unwanted attention from the old man. Toeing the line. It's what I do best.

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><p>A troll? Seriously? This year could not possibly make me want to end my life more. Traipsing after Quirrell, trying to keep Potter Jr. from killing himself while alternately keeping myself from killing him, and putting up with the antics of him and his migraine-inducing friends. I cannot believe McGonagall gave them points for tackling a troll. When they were supposed to be in the common room. Have I mentioned how much I dearly love that woman?<p>

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><p>I was wrong. I do want to die more fervently now than I have so far this year. Perhaps if I held my breath long enough I would pass out. More reliably, I could make myself a Draught of the Living Death. With my luck they'd actually bury me and then I'd die for real when I woke up. Would be better than this. Albus has given Potter's cloak to…well, Potter. Now the whelp is meandering around the school undetected after hours, unchecked, and unpunished. And I have been instructed not to interfere. Unless it is to save his life, of course. I have increased my list to two hundred ways for the old man to die.<p>

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><p>Excellent. It is my fault. Why did I expect it to be any different? Of course he would make it my fault. If I had done a better job with Quirrell, if I hadn't ignored the boy's pleas for attention, if if if if if…the old man seems happy enough Potter was able to do what he did, I don't know why he can't leave me out of it. Summer cannot arrive soon enough. Three hundred ways doesn't seem like a complete list.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2  Year 2

**Inner Monologue**

Year 2: Harry Potter and the Kill Me Now, and Quickly.

_Only the good die young…which clearly means I am less than good._

This is sweet. Oh, how I have longed for this moment since the first day of last year. Why the old man sent me on the errand to figure out where the wonder twins are I shall never know. Perhaps he was drunk. But I have found them. A flying car? And I thought James was a moron when he was here. His son really does take the cake. My tongue is itching to dish out the verbal lashing that is so long overdue. I make it abundantly clear that they will only remain in this school over my dead body.

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><p>They are still here. I am not dead. Something is dreadfully wrong with this picture.<p>

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><p>The Chamber of Secrets is opened? Spectacular. Now I have to clean up Lucius' mess, too. Like he'll tell me the truth, thinking I'm in Dumbledore's pocket. I mean, I am, but that is irrelevant. I suppose that had to be the only reason I got Potter off the hook for petrifying that blasted feline. A moment of weakness, to be sure. But I really do hate that bloody cat.<p>

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><p>Have I mentioned I hate working with idiotic people who are under-qualified? A game of Russian Roulette with Lockhart, Potter, Weasley, Granger, and myself sounds like fun. And throw the old man in for good measure.<p>

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><p>Potter is a Parselmouth? Wonderful. This is going to ruin my life further. I am not yet sure how, but I have no doubt I shall be proven correct soon enough.<p>

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><p>Yes, yes, it has happened. Potter has once again saved the day, and managed to endear himself to the old man and wizarding world at large. And obliterated Lockhart's memory – 5 points to Gryffindor. And pissed off Lucius – 5 points from Gryffindor. Not because I don't want to piss off Lucius, but because now mine and Potter's lives are going to be filled with grief caused by Malfoy. He'll complain even more incessantly to me and try to find a way to kill Potter before the Dark Lord can come back to get him.<p>

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><p>Summer cannot come soon enough. And I am reasonably sure my death list for the old man rivals Filch's banned list stuck on his door. I am inwardly dejected that the cat was cured.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3 Year 3

Year 3: Harry Potter and the Fucking Brat Ruins My Day. Again.

_Life sucks. Then you die. Unless you're me. Then you live, and live, and live._

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><p>I detest September first. I hate it with all my heart. Oh, that the day would not exist, then perhaps school would not start. That is quite a lovely poem I have just composed. Something that would give me great pleasure would be to list the things I hate. Potter and his sidekicks aren't even on the list – they should just be a given. Let's start with the old man introducing yet another thorn into my side – I'm amazed I haven't died yet from the loss of blood. Lupin. How Albus thinks I will be able to work with that wolf makes my blood boil. If he thinks I am just going to roll over and forget what that piece of slime and his friends did to me, he is sorely mistaken. At least Black's escaped, maybe he really will come here and kill Lupin and Potter in one fell swoop. Ah, I should be so lucky.<p>

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><p>Longbottom. Item number two on my list. A vulture hat? And a skirt? If Lupin thinks I will not have his head served to me on a silver platter, he is delusional. Ha. I amuse myself. Silver platter. For the werewolf – silver, werewolf – get it? I am losing my sanity.<p>

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><p>I could poison the Wolfsbane potion, but that would be too obvious. The next time I'm forced to take over the wolf's classes, I'll assign an essay on recognizing the Werewolf. I can always hope (vainly) that someone besides Ms. Granger will pick up on it. I'm not holding my breath.<p>

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><p>Lupin is helping Black, I am sure of it. And he's up to something with Potter. I am incensed that the old man is refusing to listen to me. I hate being in the chains of repentance. I suppose retirement is out of the question.<p>

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><p>Lovely. I have finally snapped. I am screaming my head off in the infirmary at three teenagers, in front of the Minister of Magic and the old man. Maybe they'll fire me. Or cart me away. One can only hope.<p>

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><p>Summer cannot come soon enough. And I am making it my personal mission to find out what in the hell happened that night when Black escaped, aided and abetted by Potter and Pals. My list of ways has reached five hundred.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4 Year 4

Year 4: Harry Potter and the Shit Hits the Fan.

_That which does not kill us makes us stronger. I would rather be weak and dead._

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><p>Moody is back. At least he doesn't make me want to carve my heart out with a spoon. Paranoid, yes, but at least he's qualified. But Lord, he stinks – does he have a fear of showers, too? <em>So<em> happy the Triwizard is happening this year. Again, my sarcasm astounds me. At least there's no Quidditch. But I'll have to endure Karkaroff. Life just gets better and better.

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><p>I have decided to make a bet with myself. Ten Galleons says Potter tries to put his name into the Goblet and fails. Twenty Galleons says Potter tries to put his name in and it works. Because this is how my life goes.<p>

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><p>I swear if Potter glares at me one more time I will backhand him. Between he, Longbottom, and Weasley, my fourth-year Potions class is a monumental disaster. Much like the rest of my life.<p>

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><p>Twenty Galleons to me. Although, Albus seems to believe the boy. Moody agrees. I have to concede the point; Potter does not possess even close to enough talent to have tricked the Goblet.<p>

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><p>Sweet Merlin that boy can fly. He is light years ahead of his father. I almost find myself wanting to cheer for him. Almost. At least I'm not willing the dragon to win.<p>

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><p>Something is not right. Moody is off. Karkaroff is becoming a liability. And why would Potter need to brew Polyjuice potion? The Gillyweed I can understand (why, oh why could he not have drowned and taken Weasley with him?), but Polyjuice? Since the lake didn't kill him, I will have to if he steals from my stores again. I wonder what I could get him to say if I actually did use the Veritaserum? Daydreams of passing fancy.<p>

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><p>Oh this is not good. Not good not good not good not good. The Dark Lord is back and Crouch Jr. was impersonating Moody (no, I will not apologize to Potter) and Karkaroff bolted and I'm supposed to be there…I hope Albus knows what he's doing, otherwise the Dark Lord is going to kill me. And not nicely. It might actually be worth it.<p>

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><p>I hate my life. Playing double agent (and I am not nearly as good looking as Bond, and get far fewer ladies), having to be cordial to Black; summer does not promise to be pleasant. Could my list for the old man get any longer?<p> 


	5. Chapter 5 Year 5

Year 5: Harry Potter and Things Get Worse (how is that possible?)

_Life's just a stage, and we are merely players. Maybe I should 'break a leg'._

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><p>When have I ever looked forward to the beginning of the school year? Oh, that's right, ever since I was forced to spend a large chunk of my summer with the mangy mutt at his dead mother's house risking my life while he sits back and reads The Prophet. And of course, for that brief moment when I thought Potter had been expelled. But that was wrenched from me like so many other pleasant things.<p>

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><p>Did that woman just interrupt the old man? Oh, this is going to be worse than awful. Between Fudge and the Dark Lord, can I not catch a break?<p>

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><p>So happy! This feels new – happy has been out of my vocabulary for quite some time. Someone other than me is putting Potter in detention. And keeping him from Quidditch. Part of me likes this Umbridge. A very, very small part.<p>

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><p>Not anymore. At least she's getting ready to sack Trelawny. How dare she speak to me like that in <em>my<em> classroom? She should count herself lucky that I have trained myself not to kill on instinct. Then again, so should Potter. And Weasley. And Granger. And Longbottom. And the old man.

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><p>I have been summoned to the old man's office. At this infernal hour, it had better well be important. I have to shake my head to clear my ears. Is he serious? Has the man finally cracked? Me? Teach Potter? Occlumency? Alone? Kill me kill me kill me. The love of my existence was not worth this. And now I hate myself even more. Because of course she was. And it's my fault she's dead. And I look into his eyes and I see her. Why will no one kill me when I want to die?<p>

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><p>Umbridge, coming to me for Veritaserum? To use on Potter? Even I am not that cruel. Wait – of course I am that cruel. But alas, I am not allowed to give her real Veritaserum because then Potter would tell her all sorts of things. <em>I<em> might be able to let slip where Black is, though. She wouldn't need Veritaserum for that.

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><p>I have never actually thought I would kill him. Potter. It was all I could do to remember that I am trying to keep myself out of Azkaban rather than get chucked in. And I can't even press charges for him violating my pensieve. I could torture him and then use an Obliviate. I shouldn't tempt myself. Have I mentioned I hate my life?<p>

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><p>Why are the people who have the most power the ones who have the fewest brain cells? Add Fudge to the long list of people I wish to kill. Now the old man is gone, Umbridge is in charge, and the school is a rampant chaotic mess. Watch, somehow Albus will manage to make this all my fault.<p>

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><p>If the imbecile had come to me in the first place, we wouldn't be in this position. 'He's got Padfoot in the place where it's hidden'? It's like something out of a ridiculous spy plot – why not just say, 'The elephant lands at midnight'? Now I have to go check on Black, and if he really is at the Ministry, clean up this mess. Again. Maybe I could just be a few seconds too late. I certainly would not mourn the loss of that flea-ridden worthless piece of shit.<p>

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><p>Of course it's my fault. I knew it would be. Of course it's my fault Black is dead. Of course I didn't work hard enough with Potter on Occlumency. Of course I shouldn't have terminated our lessons when he went and broke wizarding law and dipped in my pensieve. Of course it's my fault that a handful of unbelievably unskilled teenagers gallivanted off to the Ministry, alone, to take on the Dark Lord. And ended up fighting a pack of Death Eaters. And inadvertently smashed the prophecy. Why in God's name do things always have to work out in that boy's favor? But I will be happy to take the fall for Black's death. I'm supremely pleased with that unexpected collateral damage.<p>

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><p>And summer approaches, filled with the promises of meetings with the Dark Lord – those should be scintillating; meetings with the Order – those promise to be stress and worry free; time spent with the old man – always a joyous occasion; and if I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to spend some quality time with the brat. Just to have icing on the cake. My list is now officially a scroll.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6 Year 6

Year 6: Harry Potter and the Top Ten Things I Never Want to Do.

_You can sleep when you're dead. Please let me fall asleep._

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><p>Am I hearing him right? The Dark Lord wants Draco – <em>Draco<em> – to assassinate Dumbledore? Lucius has really fucked up this time. Draco's a dead man. Trust Albus to come up with some way around that.

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><p>Why did the old man put on that ring? Why? Although he claims this makes things 'easier'. Right. Of course it will be 'easy' to switch the subject I have been teaching for the past sixteen years. Of course it will be 'easy' to keep tabs on Draco as he attempts to murder you. Of course it will be 'easy' to save anyone else he might put in harm's way while doing it. Of course it will be 'easy' to keep Potter from doing monumentally stupid things that could kill him – again. Of course, of course it will be so 'easy' to raise my wand and kill you myself. Revulsion bubbles up inside me and I taste the bile in my mouth. Unfortunately, I know this is nothing compared to what it will be when I actually do what he's requested.<p>

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><p>Teaching Defense is not nearly as rewarding as I had hoped. I suppose it wasn't the subject of Potions that was so awful about teaching. I guess it is the students that make it so miserable. I suppose, without them, teaching might actually be fun. But fun is a luxury I cannot afford to have. Two students nearly died because of Draco's idiocy, and the boy still won't let me near him. He may have his father's looks and demeanor, but he is sorely lacking in the wits department.<p>

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><p>I stare at Potter, trying to enter his mind. I see the book. How dare he! That's <em>my<em> book! He's been using my book all year? No wonder Slug-head has been raving about him. I _knew_ I wasn't the problem. I demand he bring it to me. I will haul him over the coals for this. But he gets out of it again. This is not his book. Fine. I have more pressing matters; Draco won't die. Yet.

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><p>Up on the tower, on the tower. I am running, trying to get there before Draco can do anything – or before anyone else gets there and does it for him. Things would go so horribly wrong if that were to happen. Up the stairs, oh thank God, the old man is still alive. Draco looks like hell.<p>

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><p>You don't have to say my name, Albus, I haven't forgotten. I have never before wished so hard that things could be different. Except when she died. I feel vomit in my mouth. But time stands still for no man. This was never on my list.<p>

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><p>Have to get out, have to grab Draco and run. What is that noise? *Sigh* Potter. Of course. Not now, brat. But he's following us and I make Draco go so I can fend Potter off.<p>

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><p>Must I find a teachable moment everywhere? When will Potter learn discipline? Control? I am nearly on top of him now, my mind reeling from what I have just had to do – what I will have to do still. How dare he call me a coward? Use my own spells against me? I am *this close* to punching him in the face when he glares at me with those eyes. Her eyes. They are my undoing. I throw him back to the ground and flee. I may be many things, but coward is not among them.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7 Year 7

Year 7: Harry Potter and My Payment (or: How I Settled My Debt)

_The universe never gives you more than you can handle. Unless, of course, it kills you._

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><p>I'm getting too old for this. Taking orders from Albus' portrait like the man were still here. Living so many half-truths I have no idea which way is up anymore. My nightmares and my waking hours seem so similar nowadays, sometimes I forget if I've even slept. I may have never made a Horcrux, but my soul feels torn enough to do so; little pieces fluttering in the wind, hanging on by threads, ready to be cut at any time. Telling the Dark Lord when Potter will be moved; hoping the decoys will be enough to save them all; knowing it probably won't; watching Burbage die, powerless to stop it; missing my target and hitting the Weasley-Potter instead; my hood flying off so they see who it was; seeing Moody fall, dead; I am not a spiritual man, but sometimes I find myself praying that once I fall asleep, I will never wake up.<p>

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><p>I do not particularly enjoy playing Headmaster. Especially since I was responsible for the previous one's demise. I detest it even more because while I can now run the school as I think it should have been done ages ago, there is no longer any joy in it for me. I never would have thought I could ever say this, but I actually miss the classroom – students and all. Maybe not Longbottom.<p>

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><p>Phineas tells me where they are, in the forest. I slip out of the castle and outside the grounds, sword at my side. I twist on the spot and disappear, popping quietly into the woods. I walk around until I see a frozen pond. Perfect. I wouldn't go in there in this weather if you paid me enough to retire. Maybe I'd jump in if you promised me it would kill me. Perfect for a Gryffindor. I break the ice and levitate the sword, resting it on the bottom. I repair the ice. I'll make sure he finds it. I head back to where I appeared. I know they are here, so I cast some simple counterspells and their protection disappears. As soon as Potter follows me, I'll put them back up so they'll be safe. I cast the Disillusionment Charm on myself and take a deep breath. My eyes prick when I see the doe appear from my wand. Just one more way I'm paying my debt to her, by doing this. And it will never be enough.<p>

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><p>Things are not good. The Dark Lord is furious. They had Potter at the Manor and they let him get away – not just him, but Weasley, Granger, the goblin, and Ollivander. And that other girl. Maybe if I'd been there I could have gotten myself killed. But that would have been irresponsible. I still have work to do.<p>

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><p>Potter did what? I am inwardly impressed. Perhaps he is not a total failure. Breaking into Gringott's is no small feat. I'm told he had help, but still. What did he need, I wonder? Curiosity killed the cat. I doubt mine will kill me. Pity.<p>

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><p>My arm is burning; someone pressed the mark to summon him. Fuck. That means Potter's here in the castle. The Dark Lord thought he might come – I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to do it. There goes my being impressed. Of <em>course<em>, McGonagall won't tell me where he is. Now she's incensed. Have I mentioned how much I dearly love her? Right. Now she's setting inanimate objects on me. I decide the time is ripe for retirement. Good Lord, I hope Potter knows what he's doing.

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><p>I have been summoned. This is Not Good. I have no information for him, nothing to tell him. He knows this. Trust him to use the Shrieking Shack; brings back great memories. Yippie. My heart hammers in my chest. Lucius doesn't know what he wants, but it can't be good. Can't be worse than anything so far, I suppose.<p>

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><p>Oh dear. Wrong wrong wrong. Much worse. I can't tell him I'm not the true master of the wand because then he'll know Albus' death was planned. And then he'll kill me. I can't accept it either, because he'll kill me. And I am not ready to die. I am fucked. Think fast think fast think fast. I ask if I can go bring him Potter because I know that I know that my death now will mean I have failed at my last and most important duty. If I can't get my information to Potter, this blasted thing may never end. Maybe this will be my final way to torture the old man – be derelict in my duty. But then my debt will not be paid, and I will never be at peace. But I have no choice. He has refused me twice. Funny, how I wished for death for so long and now I'm trying to evade it. Not because I don't want to die, but because I have unfinished business. Ironic. There is a slash and I expect to fall, except I don't. Instead, the snake moves toward me. Oh fuck, this is going to really, really suck. Can I not even die in peace? Really? Is that too much to ask? I am trying not to feel the pain, the blood gushing out of my neck. I faintly notice that the Dark Lord has left. I hear something beside me.<p>

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><p>Potter. Never in my life did I think I would be glad to see Harry Potter. But I am. I let the memories flow out of me, urging him to take them. Five points to Gryffindor for Granger having the sense to conjure a flask. He gets what I need him to take. Now he will know. I can only hope he is strong enough for what he must do. Somehow, I know he will be. And now, my debt is paid. I can be at rest. I claim my prize, grabbing him and pulling him towards me.<p>

"Look at me."

Her eyes are the last thing I see.


	8. Chapter 8  Take 2 Year 4

_Warning: Mature Content & implied slash - read with discretion_

_A/N: This version has the same monologue for years 1-3, so it picks up at year 4_

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><p><strong>T<strong>**ake 2: If it went differently**

rated 16+ (HP/SS)

Year 4: Harry Potter and What the Hell?

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><p>Moody is back. At least this guy doesn't make me want to carve my heart out with a spoon. Paranoid, sure, but at least he's qualified. But Lord, he stinks – does he have a fear of showers, too? <em>So<em> happy the Triwizard is happening this year. Again, my sarcasm astounds me. At least there's no Quidditch. But there's Karkaroff. Life just gets better and better.

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><p>The students file in and I see him. Of course I see him. He's everywhere I bloody look. I can't escape him. He's taller, more filled out. I notice heads turning to stare – not because of who he is, but because of how he looks. I suppose it had to happen eventually, even James was good-looking. I won't begrudge him that.<p>

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><p>I have decided to make a bet with myself. Ten Galleons says Potter tries to put his name in the Goblet and fails. Twenty Galleons says Potter tries to put his name in and it works. Because this is how my life goes.<p>

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><p>Twenty Galleons to me. Although Albus seems to believe the boy. Moody agrees. I have to concede the point, Potter does not possess even close to enough talent to have tricked the Goblet.<p>

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><p>I stare at Potter while he makes a potion – which he will royally fuck up, for sure – and I notice changes. He seems different somehow. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he seems thinner – has he been eating enough? Perhaps the pressure of the tournament is taking its toll. And it hasn't even started yet. I should talk to Albus. He's probably going to think I actually care about the whelp.<p>

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><p>Sweet Merlin that boy can fly. He is light years ahead of his father. The way he handles the broom, weaving above the dragon, changing direction with such precision, the wind in his hair, it's quite an experience I'm having as I watch. I almost find myself wanting to cheer for him. Almost. What the hell is happening to me? At least I'm not willing the dragon to win.<p>

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><p>Something is not right. Moody is off. Karkaroff is becoming a liability. And why would Potter need to brew Polyjuice potion? The Gillyweed I can understand (why, oh why could he not have drowned and taken Weasley with him?), but Polyjuice? Since the lake didn't kill him, I will have to if he steals from my stores again. When I take him by the collar and yank him toward me to threaten him, I notice a faint smell – pleasant, woodsy, like the wind. I snap back to reality. I wonder what I could get him to say if I actually did use the Veritaserum? Perhaps something to get him expelled? Daydreams of passing fancy.<p>

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><p>Oh this is not good. Not good not good not good not good. The Dark Lord is back and Crouch Jr. was impersonating Moody (no, I will not apologize to Potter) and Karkaroff bolted and I'm supposed to be there…I hope Albus knows what he's doing, otherwise the Dark Lord is going to kill me. And not nicely.<p>

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><p>Joy. Playing double agent (and I am not nearly as good looking as Bond, and get laid much less), having to be cordial to Black; summer does not promise to be pleasant. I think perhaps that torture would be too kind for the old man.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9 Take 2 Year 5

_A/N: Mature content: implied slash & language - read with discretion_

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><p><strong>Year 5: Harry Potter and I Did NOT Just Think That<strong>

I notice Potter with a glance as I am leaving Grimmauld Place. He looks agitated, angry. There's something behind his eyes – fear? I do not stop to ponder – it was just a glance, maybe I am mistaken.

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><p>Damn. Part of me was hoping Potter would actually be expelled. Leave it to the old man to get him out of that. And now we've got Umbridge to deal with.<p>

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><p>Potter is brewing a potion, which I am more than sure he will fail spectacularly at, and I am struck by how different he looks. Taller, certainly, than I remember. More…adult. His shoulders are broader. And yet, he looks thinner, somehow. Perhaps the Diggory boy's death affected him harder than we had thought. I must speak to Albus. It wouldn't do for our Golden Boy to wither away. Trust him to think this means I care. Which I most certainly do not.<p>

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><p>I would like to shove the next Educational Decree up Dolores Umbridge's ass.<p>

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><p>And I am in Albus' office at some ungodly hour. Potter looks like hell. I notice, belatedly, that the other Weasley children do, too. But I am more concerned about Potter. Did I just think that? Not concerned, I meant he looks worse in comparison. Is that…is that vomit on his shirt? What the hell is going on?<p>

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><p>Occlumency. Me, teach Potter Occlumency. Albus refuses to do it himself. I'm sure he has his reasons. Most likely he gets a kick out of finding new levels to add to my hell.<p>

* * *

><p>Potter arrives for our first lesson. He is defiant, his chin jutting out daringly. I am struck to see that he now has need to shave. And his jaw line is defined – square – that of an adult. When did I miss this? When did this boy begin to grow up? On the inside, was he ever really young? Is his body just now catching up with his soul? I begin talking to distract myself from my observations. And he is terrible at Occlumency. As I knew he would be. Ten points to Slytherin.<p>

* * *

><p>Our lessons continue, badly. We are getting nowhere. By the end of each session Potter is invariably sprawled on my classroom floor, drenched in sweat. He smells of anger, and defiance, and angst. The sweat makes his shirt cling to his frame and I notice that even though he may have been banned from Quidditch, he hasn't lost his physique. Why the hell am I staring at him? I am beginning to doubt my own sanity.<p>

* * *

><p>I look at Potter during dinner. He is laughing about something. I notice how he laughs with his whole body. How he wraps his arms around his torso when he shakes with laughter. How his eyes crinkle up and he looks healthier than he has in a while. Usually when I see him he is trying to kill me with daggers from his eyes. It's good to know the boy still has it in him to laugh. With what he's going to have to do later, he'll need it. Damn it, I'm making myself nauseous.<p>

* * *

><p>The boy thinks the Dark Lord has the mutt at the Ministry. I seriously doubt that is the case, but I will check just to make sure. Wouldn't want precious Potter to do something stupid. Albus would fry my ass and feed it to a Hippogriff if that happened.<p>

* * *

><p>Dead? Black? Dead? How can this be? And how the fuck is it my fault? Black knew better than to run off and get himself killed; his gross lack of common sense cannot possibly be my fault. I look out the window toward the lake and see Potter. His shoulders are hunched over and he is sitting on the ground staring at the water. He sits for a long time, the wind ruffling his hair and his robes. If he doesn't come in for dinner, should I go out and get him? Wait, he probably blames me for the dog's death, too. If I went out there to talk to him, he'd probably try to kill me. And then I'd have to hurt him. In self-defense. And that would incense Albus. I should avoid the brat. Good, he's getting up to come inside. Why do I <em>care<em>? Am I losing my grip on reality?


	10. Chapter 10 Take 2 Year 6

_Mature content: implied slash & language - read with discretion_

* * *

><p><strong>Year 6: Harry Potter and My Whole Fucking World Gets Turned Upside Down.<strong>

Everyone is at the Burrow. I detest that place. It reeks of Weasleys. But since Grimmauld Place is no longer an option, I have to go. Lucky me.

* * *

><p>As I walk up to the front door, a figure catches my eye. Potter is outside, staring into nothingness. He sees me and turns. If I thought the boy hated me before, there can be no mistaking the emotion now. Pure loathing and venom radiate from his eyes. I wonder if I ever managed to look at him with that much disgust. Probably. But I can see the changes from even a few months ago. He seems to have reached full height, which isn't all that high. The gangliness of his early adolescent years seems gone. Although he's only sixteen, if he were a few inches higher, he could pass for twenty. It's probably the intensity of emotion behind his eyes – he's seen and done more than any sixteen-year-old should have to. Almost more than I did. I break eye contact and go inside.<p>

* * *

><p>And I am watching Potter brew another potion. I am so distracted by the concentration on his face, the way his hands dice the roots, the way the steam fogs up his glasses, I almost miss saving the rest of the class from Longbottom's weekly fuck-up. And I realize the way I was just looking at Potter means that I am currently the one who is fucked up.<p>

* * *

><p>Wonderful. Albus wants me to continue private lessons with Potter. More Occlumency, but also Legilimency, human Transfiguration, and other N.E.W.T. level material and beyond. I remind him that I have classes to teach and a life to live. His lack of response nearly launches me across his desk to throttle him. Of course I have to do it.<p>

* * *

><p>I now have the distinct pleasure of spending not only several hours each week with Potter in my Potions classroom, but another round of lessons in my private office after class hours every day he doesn't have Quidditch practice. Or Sundays. I refuse to be forced to see the bane of my existence every fucking day.<p>

* * *

><p>He comes in and I throw theory at him. Book after book. Then we duel. We practice until he must be feeling like his brain is bleeding. I begin to notice that he is dealing with an increasing lack of control. His emotions are unchecked, causing major problems. I try backing off. I have seen too much of that boy's mind to have any further delusions that he is like his father in any way other than looks. Albus was right; he's more like his mother. He certainly yells like she did.<p>

* * *

><p>We finish a particularly grueling round of sparring one evening and he flops himself into the nearest armchair to recover. I notice him staring at me with a peculiar look in his eyes. What is that look? I have not seen it before from him. I am unnerved. I am startled when he asks me why I have stopped berating him, why I am being 'nice'. I have to think carefully – he won't appreciate what I am sure he would see as an attempt to treat him like a child, with kid-gloves. But he has made more progress with this approach than before, so I can't go back to the way things were. I chalk it up to different teaching methods and hope he buys it. I'm not sure he does.<p>

* * *

><p>He streaks into my office for this evening's lesson and it is at once evident to me that his emotions are higher strung than a pixie on a sugar high. A quick glance at his face reveals fresh tear tracks. This will not do. We won't accomplish anything with him in this state. I very rarely turn 'counselor', but it seems the necessary thing to do. I tell him to sit down, that things will be slightly different for this lesson. I lean back against the front of my desk and cross my arms. Skillfully, deftly, as I am trained to do, I wheedle information out of him regarding his tenuous emotional state. I quickly pinpoint two concentrated areas of issue: his social life, and Black's death. We deal with social life first. After all, he's a teenager. This should be fairly simple. I give a mental snort at my own 'simple' teenage days. I ask him if it's a problem with a girl. He squirms. This is interesting, is he uncomfortable? My curiosity is piqued. I prod further. I snap at him when he tries to assure me it is 'nothing'. After much cajoling, he finally admits that the problem is not <em>with<em> a girl, it's the fact that it _isn't_ with a girl. After years of practice, I am able to hide my smirk. Leave it to the Golden Boy to turn out to be gay. I make a mental note to tell Albus and see what he thinks. I inwardly roll my eyes – he'll think it's great; the man plays for that team, too. Wonderful. When the Dark Lord is dead, the three of us can go trolling for dates at the nearest gay bar. I almost can't contain my mirth. I wave off Potter's concern and try to be as neutral as possible when I tell him it's perfectly common in the wizarding world and if his friends have a problem they'll get over it – or they aren't worth being friends with. He assures me Weasley and Granger are fine with it. Of course they are.

* * *

><p>Now we tackle the elephant in the room. Black. I decide I've handled worse than this and plunge in head first. I tell him I know he blames me for Black's death, and he has every right to be upset that the mutt is dead. I don't call him a mutt out loud. First, Potter shocks me with a confused look. Then, he stuns me into silence when he confesses that it is not me that he blames, but himself. Well, it <em>is<em> partly his fault. I figure honesty is the best policy – I never enjoyed being lied to when I was sixteen. I explain that sometimes events happen as a result of several things, and this is one of those times. Yes, he played a part, but by no means was he the sole reason. I am in the middle of a sentence when I notice the tears trailing down his cheeks. I am torn. I can't just sit there and watch. I can't send him away. But I can't comfort him. The thought of me comforting anybody is laughable. But Potter? But it tugs at my heart strings. Well, it would, if I had a heart. _Fine_, I cringe inwardly, and make my way over to his chair. I sit down on the padded arm and tentatively wrap an arm around his shoulder. His upper body folds into itself, and he buries his face in my leg. His body heaves as he cries. I mean, really cries. I have a feeling it is about much more than Black. I keep my arm on his shoulder and with the other one, I stroke his hair. I don't say anything, but I don't think I have to. He finally stops and sits up. He apologizes. I shrug it off. We both stand up. I tell him I believe our lesson is finished for the evening. We stare awkwardly at each other. I see a steely determination come into his eyes, and he launches himself at me, wrapping his arms around me in a…oh dear God, is he hugging me? Well, I'd better do something. I put my arms around him and give a light squeeze – nothing compared to what he's doing to me. I bring my face down so my cheek rests on the top of his head. I start to realize how good it feels, holding on to him. He doesn't feel like a boy anymore, he feels solid, whole. I can smell him, the salt from his tears, the adrenaline from the anger, and the fear he has of showing me his emotion. I can feel his heart beating furiously in his chest. I don't recognize what is happening to me. Do I…do I _like_ this? Am I…_enjoying_ this? He steps back. He thanks me. He leaves. I can see that he is better. I smile involuntarily.


	11. Chapter 11 Take 2 Year 7

_Mature content: implied slash & language - read with discretion_

* * *

><p><strong>Year 7: Harry Potter and the Unexpected…Well, Unexpected Everything<strong>

Dumbledore only keeps Potter at his Aunt's for two weeks. Then he brings him back to Hogwarts. For the rest of the summer. Great. Albus has managed to find and destroy five of the six Horcruxes – partly with my help. Dear God I hope this will be over soon. I am so very, very tired. I can't begin to imagine what the old man feels like.

* * *

><p>I'm in Albus' office with Potter. For sure I'm going to be asked to give him more lessons – I mean, I do know more Dark Arts than anyone, except the Dark Lord himself. I find that I do not mind. Much. I blink furiously at what I have just heard. The sixth Horcrux is the snake? What are we going to do about that? Of <em>course<em> he has a plan. Which he will not share with me. Par for the course. And he tells us we have another problem. Of _course_ we do. There is a seventh Horcrux. Now why didn't I think of that? My sarcasm is one of the few things I love about myself. I barely keep myself in my seat when he tells us what it is. I turn and see Potter go sheet white. The blood drains completely from his face. It's him? The Horcrux is…Harry? Now when did he go and start becoming 'Harry'?

* * *

><p>I am terrified. What if we do something wrong? What if it doesn't work? This kind of magic is lethal. I quell my reservations. We give Harry the potions, mutter the spells. In a few moments, he is gone. His body is slack, heart stopped, he is dead. Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry, please let it work. I don't want to lose you, please let this work. Half a minute, a whole minute, how long is this supposed to take? Finally, after what seems like an eternity, we hear him gasp. Color floods his face and he takes deep breaths. And he is back. I suddenly feel a nearly irrepressible urge to lean over and plant my lips on his. Albus eyes me with an appraising look. If Albus were not here, would I have stopped myself? I need to be committed.<p>

* * *

><p>Damn the old man, his plan for the snake really did work. And now all that's left is the Dark Lord. He is once again mortal, and death will come swiftly for him. Harry is doing his job, he's using everything he's learned to distract the Dark Lord. And I do my job, keeping everyone away from them, trying not to worry about whether Harry is living or dying. And Albus does his job, taking his shot while the Dark Lord is dodging a curse from Harry. The world freezes around us, and the Dark Lord falls. The Death Eaters Disapparate faster than lightning. Who knew? The 'power the Dark Lord knows not' was the simple ability to be an object of obsession and infatuation so strong that it blinded the rest of his vision. Simple, but effective.<p>

* * *

><p>I immediately run to Harry and notice that he is in pretty bad shape. Nothing I don't think he'll recover from, but it is imperative that we get him inside so Poppy can have a look at him. And as I guide him in, we are followed by what promises to be a life-long, and large, adoring crowd. Albus shoos everyone away and conjures a curtain around the bed. Poppy cleans him up and fixes what she can. Of course he'll have to go to St. Mungo's for a while – the infirmary here is demolished. Harry tries to make a run for it and I shove him back down on the bed gently. He has no idea how endearing I now find that petulant scowl. Albus suggests I take him there myself. I raise my eyebrows, hoping he doesn't take it as a refusal, just incredulity. He nods, a twinkle in his eye, and gives me half a wink. How does the damned man do it? He <em>knows<em> – I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows. So I suppose this is like permission? He gives us a portkey and we take it, hook-in-the-belly sensation kicks in, and we arrive at St. Mungo's front desk.

* * *

><p>I make sure they get Potter to a private room. No visitors except for myself and the Headmaster. Potter protests. I roll my eyes. I make sure he sees it. I allow for the Weasley boy and Granger. He relaxes. The healer leaves us while she goes to get the necessary potions for the more long-term recovery. Just a few days, but still, long-term. I walk over to the side of his bed. He pats the mattress, inviting me to sit down. He tells me he's glad Albus let me take him here. I feel my eyes looking quizzically. He looks down at his hands. Is he blushing? What does that mean? He looks up, determined. He takes my nearest hand in his, and pulls me closer to him. My brain is firing neurons at top speed. What is he doing? Is he crazy? Has he come unhinged? Should I call someone? What is he doing? Why are we so close? Oh Dear God he's kissing me, he's kissing me and I am not stopping it, not stopping it at all. In fact, I'm kissing him back, like I do this every day, like it's completely normal for me to lean over and kiss my student. Not just any student, either, but the Savior of the Entire Fucking World. And for all I'm worth, I can't deny that I love it.<p>

* * *

><p>The healer clears her throat behind us, and I jump up off the bed. She informs me that visiting hours are over for today and that I'll be able to spend time with him later. I look back at him, trying to question with my eyes if he is all right. He gives me a soft smile and a nod. Yes, we will have more time later. Much, much more time.<p> 


	12. Chapter 12 Take 3 Year 5

_Mature content: slash & language - read with discretion_

_This version has the same inner monologue as Take 1 years 1-3 and the same inner monologue as Take 2 year 4, so it picks up with year 5._

* * *

><p><strong>Take 3: If things went very, very differently.<strong> 18+

* * *

><p><span>Year 5: Harry Potter and the Pedophile<span>.

I hate Sirius Black. Not that this changes anything, but it makes me feel better to think it every time I look at him. And why did I agree to stay for dinner? But my house elf does leave much to be desired. The Grimmauld Place occupants begin filing into the room. Granger walks in, followed by Weasley, followed by Potter. He sees me and stiffens up. I don't have to even use Legilimency to know he's thinking 'What the fuck is Snape doing here?' Just to incense him, I incline my head to him and narrow my eyes in a mock greeting. He seethes. Excellent. Dinner is pleasant enough. I just wish Black weren't here. Or Potter. Or any of the Weasleys. Or Lupin. Or Granger. Ok, perhaps dinner is not pleasant at all. I notice that I am not the only one devoid of words during the meal. Potter is strangely quiet. Granger is talking with the Weasley girl, the Weasley boy is talking with his older brother, the one from…Egypt, maybe? And Potter is between them, silent. He looks…angry? Did they perhaps have a row? No, there's an undercurrent to it…fear? Why is he afraid? Something catches my ear – a hearing? Who's going to a hearing? Potter? To be expelled? I do the happy dance in my head.

* * *

><p>Potter is brewing the assigned potion, lamentably, as expected. I stalk over to him and berate him for it, as always. I see the flash of fury in his eyes, the flush of anger in his cheeks. He's actually quite a bit better looking with that much emotion behind his face. I make a mental note to cause such emotion more often. Not for my benefit, of course, but for his classmates. Surely the ladies are falling over themselves to get to him. As I pass him, though, I turn to look at his back. There's something in his stance. I watch him walk over to the cabinet. The way he walks, the way he holds up the vials to read their ingredients, and it thunks into place in my brain. Bloody hell. Potter is gay. As he turns around and walks back, he catches me staring at him. I must have a crazy look on my face, because he darts his eyes down and moves faster to get back to his table. This is hilarious.<p>

* * *

><p>Potter is in my classroom for extra lessons. He's taking them with all the teachers this year. But lucky me, I get him twice. Plus class. Whoopee. I take these opportunities to let loose verbal barrages that would not be even close to tolerated in an actual classroom, with witnesses. I notice how when he shouts back, his stomach muscles clench. Must he always wear shirts that seem painted on? It's even worse when we're done and his shirt is soaked with sweat from the effort. I wonder how many boys in the common room will ogle him when he returns. I dismiss him, watching him as he walks away. He does look remarkably like his father, not such a bad thing, as his father was quite good-looking. Well, he would have been, if he hadn't been a colossal ass.<p>

* * *

><p>I find myself watching Potter one morning at breakfast. The girls' heads still turn as he walks through the hall. Do they know he plays for the other team? Girls usually have a pretty good sense about that. Lily certainly did. She was so sweet, to let me figure it out on her. Of course, that didn't help the whole James-Hating-Me cause, but…what can you do? I watch the boys – some of the older ones give him passing stares – so it's not just me, he really is gay. Then I have a startling thought – does Potter even know he's gay? It takes some people years to figure it out. Oh, this is too good to be true. I now have weeks of fodder to use during our private sessions.<p>

* * *

><p>I am taunting him about a girlfriend – which he denies having. I spit back that I don't believe it for a second. Then I taunt him about why he doesn't have one – is he too good for them? I love pushing that button, making him think I think he's arrogant. I think nothing of the sort, of course, but damn it's fun to see him riled up. Predictably, he lashes out. I go in for a second attack. Maybe none of the girls will have him – why would that be? I delight inside to see I've struck a chord. Such self-esteem issues. I am a criminal to play on them like that. I assuage my guilt by saying the Dark Lord won't be cautious about his feelings, so why should I? I continue – perhaps there is another reason he doesn't have a girlfriend, what could it be? I cast a curse at him while he ponders that, aware that he is distracted. I hope I've made my point about not losing focus. He starts shouting at me, letting lose. He actually starts advancing on me – probably unaware that he's doing it – so I stalk toward him, dishing it out as good as he's giving it. We finally come toe-to-toe in the middle of the room, and he snaps his mouth shut, his eyes wide, thinking he's gone too far. But he's done exactly what I wanted him to do. There is very little space between us. I stop my verbal assault as well, and simply stare him down. He wants to run, I can see it in his eyes. I press my advantage, moving my body a fraction of an inch closer to him – close enough that my breath is fluttering his hair. I can see his pulse racing in his neck. I can suddenly feel the tension from him that is not from fear, but from being this close to another man…and liking it – I remember that feeling quite well. My lips curve up in an evil smile, satisfied that I have gotten my point across. I dismiss him, and he runs from me, not looking back. I wonder which boy he will dream about tonight.<p>

* * *

><p>The class is working on an Aging Potion. Invariably, all of them will do it wrong. It is supposed to be seashell pink when done correctly. Draco's will be fuchsia, Finnegan's will be electric pink, Thomas' will be orange, Zabini's will be blue, Potter's will be green, and Granger's will be rose-petal pink – close, but no cigar. Longbottom will blow his up. Again. While I wait for my flock of sheep to mutilate their assignment, I walk around the room. I notice Potter shift uneasily every time I step in his direction. Ah, this is new, and so much fun. I deliberately take a path that puts me passing behind Potter. I stop directly behind him, invading his personal space. I hear his breath hitch. I speak loudly for the benefit of the class and inform him that what he has now done has rendered his potion useless, although it is a lovely shade of green – I suggest that perhaps he did it on purpose to match his eyes. I make sure that as I leave him, I brush against his back ever so lightly. I feel him freeze up. Oh yes, yes I did my job well the other night. I am most certain he now knows he is attracted to men.<p>

* * *

><p>Potter is in extra lessons again, and – as usual – not performing well. But I can sense a difference. This time, he's uncomfortable with <em>me<em>. I snap at him to spit out whatever's bothering him so we can get some work done. He seems reluctant. I don't tolerate that. I know which buttons to push, and I get started right away. Soon, I have him shouting at top volume and then when he least expects it, I shout at him to tell me what his problem is. Predictably, he shouts out the truth. He's afraid I'm flirting with him. I applaud myself inside for being so good at what I do. I stop shouting. So does he. I ask him if this bothers him because I am his teacher or because it makes him think he is not attracted to women. He admits to both. I remind him of our spat the other night and my suggestion as to the idea there might be another reason why he does not have a girlfriend, besides his assumptions that he is not desired by any of them. I see the light bulb go on in his head as he realizes what I have done, which, in two words is manipulate him. If I were a witch, I'd cackle. I retort back that I am most indeed not some sort of pedophile and that there will be no more intimation on my part that I am in any way attracted to him. It was merely a lesson. He wants to know if he should thank me. I dismiss him, watching him go. But as I watch him walk away, I know it is a lie. I am most definitely attracted to him (I would dare anyone to not be). I snort in the empty room. Pedophile my ass, Potter's no child.


	13. Chapter 13 Take 3 Year 6

_Mature content: slash & language - read with discretion_

* * *

><p><strong>Year 6: Harry Potter and the Sexy Potions Master<strong>

Grimmauld Place is hot. Uncomfortably so. I toy with the idea of removing my cloak, but decide against it – it is too much a part of my persona of undevolved evil. I stare around at those with me at the table. Potter, Black, Lupin, McGonagall, Moody, and the dynamic duo of Weasley and Granger. And of course, the old man. With Potter's O.W.L. scores in hand, we are putting together a course of study for him for this year. Regular classes have been decided. I balk at the fact that I will be accepting him into my N.E.W.T. Potions. How the boy managed an Outstanding in Potions without the help of Granger during the exam I will never know. Now extra lessons are being decided. It is assumed he will need education of magic well beyond the Advanced level Hogwarts can give him in order to defeat the Dark Lord. Everyone has offered their help in a ridiculous emotional display of loyalty and undying devotion. I am the only one left. They glare at me, expectantly. I declare, with the petulance of a child being asked to eat his broccoli, that I do not want to give up my precious time to engage in yet more time spent with Potter beyond class. There are enough people to do what needs to be done; I can be left out of it. In any event, I add, it is doubtful there will be enough time for Potter to brew a potion in the heat of the moment, and Potions expertise is all I have to offer. The old man replies, quite rightly of course, that I do have much more to offer – not the least of which is invaluable knowledge of the Dark Lord on a personal level. I glare at him, and then at Black, who looks as though he might launch himself at me from across the table. I cannot voice my true reasons for trying to wheedle myself out of these extra lessons. I would love nothing more than to have Potter in my classroom, alone, for extended periods of time. Over the last few months he has become inordinately attractive. His temper alone is enough to excite even the most controlled of men. And I pride myself on having the utmost control. I capitulate, knowing my protests are lost.

* * *

><p>Potter is brewing the lesson's assigned potion. I watch him carefully. I have forced him to pair with an unknown Ravenclaw, to assure his isolation from Granger. I want to see if he truly has the abilities his OWLS suggest. I am so caught up with watching him and alternately making sure no one commits fatal errors that I forget to taunt him aloud. Watching him is an incredible experience. His hands are so gentle with the ingredients. A light smile ghosts his lips each time the potion reacts appropriately. I am not as surprised as I should be when he completes the assignment with flying colors. Perhaps his OWL was not a fluke after all. As he presents his flask to me, I simply eye it with indifference. He glares at me, his cheeks flushing in frustration. What does he expect? A compliment? I inwardly chuckle as I force my lips into a thin line. He really is quite inviting when he gets riled up. I wonder if I can replicate this during our lesson this evening. Knowing him and his weaknesses as I do, I have no doubts about it.<p>

* * *

><p>As expected, my extra time spent with Potter has been volatile. He has no inkling of my desire for him, and I intend to keep it that way. My attraction to him must be kept secret for many reasons – the impropriety of a teacher-student relationship tops the list. Well, that and I have no doubt he does not share my sentiments. Our frequent duels to test his skills still leave him breathless and sweaty with effort. His increased time playing Quidditch has broadened his shoulders and toned his entire body. While I can see every muscle outlined beneath his clothing, I often find myself wishing I had an excuse to demand we duel with him shirtless.<p>

* * *

><p>At least his Occlumency is improving. There are nights when he manages to force me out and not end up on the floor. I am relentless, pushing in again and again, knowing each time makes it harder for him to resist. I am almost at the end of my torture this evening, however, when I glimpse a new thought inside his head. Most of what I see repeats itself for me, so new memories bring fresh interest. He is so mentally weak by this point in the lesson that try as he might, he cannot remove me from his mind. I watch in fascination at what unfolds before me. Potter writhes under another's body, hands exploring, breath panting, lips touching with fervent passion. Ah, the partner is male. I smirk at the thought that Potter has seemingly embraced his sexuality. I assume this is a recent memory of his nightly escapades. Perhaps this person is even a boyfriend and not a one-night encounter. I feel him struggle ardently as the memory comes to an end, but I do not relent. As the images begin to fade out, I am granted a look at his partner's face. My stomach heaves into my throat and my heart jolts into high gear as I see my own face detach itself from Potter's. It is not a memory – it is a fantasy. I pull myself from his mind and realize he is back on the floor, dripping with sweat and exhaustion. I lock my eyes with his and see the deepest embarrassment and fear emanating from the green jewels. Bereft of words myself, I simply jerk my head in dismissal. As he leaves, my own arousal dawns on me and I realize I will be jerking something else tonight as well.<p>

* * *

><p>I wonder if Potter will skip class to spare himself what must be extreme discomfort. I am impressed when I see him enter the classroom with Granger. I decide to be 'nice' and allow them to partner today, on some level because I believe his distraction due to my presence may cause him to make numerous monumental mistakes with the potion. My eyes are on him nearly the entire lesson. He never once looks at me, even when I question his distraction loudly to the entire class.<p>

* * *

><p>I wait in my office for Potter to arrive for our lesson. He is several minutes late, and I begin to wonder if he will show at all. It is the first time we are to be alone since the 'incident', as I have decided to call it. Perhaps he is mustering up courage? I resign myself to sit at my desk and begin grading papers. I am halfway through the first one when I hear the door open and close. I inform him without looking up that he is late and I am not pleased at his lack of concern for my precious time. He mumbles an apology, spouting some ridiculous excuse for his tardiness – as if I might actually believe him. I make my way out from behind my desk, locking eyes with Potter and noting that his cheeks are flushing with color. Good, he's still embarrassed; this will make the lesson ever so much fun. I begin the assault – not just magical, but verbal – emotional, intent on unraveling him. He finally lets loose and begins to shout back at me in defense, handling his mouth and wand together with more control that I would have given him credit for. I realize that we have been encroaching on each other's personal space as we have dueled and that I am close enough to really see his face. I falter for one moment as I see tears – are they of anger or of sadness? My pause in action leaves me no time to prepare for what happens next. Potter launches himself at me to close the space between us, and I am thinking he means to punch me in the face. I do not get a chance to raise my hands in defense before he brings his arms around the back of my head and pulls my face to his, capturing my lips in a heated, nearly violent kiss. I am so caught off guard that I involuntarily wrap my own hands around his back and return his invitation. I am overcome by the taste of his lips, mixed with the salt of his tears, and his tongue as it touches mine without hesitation. I have no idea how long it takes me, but I manage to come to my senses and wrench myself away from him, both of us gasping for air. I am painfully aware of my erection straining in my pants, thankfully hidden by my robes, but as he is merely in jeans and a t-shirt; I can see his own quite clearly. I put out my hands in front of me to stop his resulting advance. I tell him we can't, that it's not appropriate. His face falls, full of despair at the rejection. I marvel at this – does he actually want me? There was no denying his fantasy from last week, the reality of it, and there was certainly no instigation on my part for tonight's exchange of bodily fluids, but is it possible? Could he really want <em>me<em>? The way I want him? I tell him that I am sure his affections are clouded by some adolescent, hormonal haze – that he cannot possibly desire me in this way. He asks if the real reason is if I am not interested in him. Damn him, I hate seeing that look of sadness on his face. I dip my toe into the proverbial water and tell him earnestly that it is not because I don't want _him_, but that I don't want to abuse my trust – my position. The despair leaves his face, replaced by hope. He demands I repeat myself, repeat that I want him. I comply. He relaxes, his stance one of amusement and longing. He tells me he can wait. I wonder if I can do the same. As he leaves for the evening, a thought comes into my mind unsolicited. Black is going to kill me. As unpleasant as that thought is, it does nothing to dissuade my arousal, and I head into my quarters to attend to it.


	14. Chapter 14 Take 3 year 7

_Very mature content: slash & language - read with discretion (if you don't like slash, you REALLY shouldn't read this...)_

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><p><strong>Year 7: Harry Potter and the Day I Finally Get What I Want (or: I've Waited Damn Near Long Enough)<strong>

I am in Albus' office trying to tell him that I can no longer continue my private lessons with Potter. Of course he wants to know why. I struggle to form the words – I don't want to lose my job. Unsure of how else to say it, I tell him Potter has developed a crush on me. The old man does not look surprised – I try to decide if this is because he thinks it natural for students to have crushes on their teachers or if it is understandable for one to have developed a crush on me specifically. Either way, I know he will never tell me. He instead asks me how I have deduced this. Not wanting to get into the details of the fantasy plucked from Potter's brain, I settle on telling him Potter kissed me. Again, he appears unsurprised. For some reason, this irritates me. I am prepared for a variety of questions he may ask me about the incident and I begin forming suitable answers in my head. Of course he asks one I haven't thought of. He wants to know if I kissed him back. I tell him the truth: that my instinct took over for just a few seconds before I came to and vehemently tried to tell Potter his affections were not only misguided, but highly inappropriate. The old man looks thoughtful. It makes me want to scream. He asks me if this is true. I am flabbergasted and reply quickly that of course it's true – a student-teacher relationship is highly inappropriate. Oh. He meant is it true that the affections are misguided. I evade the question by telling him my interest, or lack thereof, in Potter is irrelevant to the situation. I fear that the boy's perceptions are no longer objective and know that our sessions will be ineffective so long as he is distracted by my presence. Why does the old man keep coming up with questions I haven't thought of? He wants to know how Potter responded to my admonitions. I suppose he took them well enough, I tell the Headmaster. No, he didn't try to push me on it, and no, he didn't leave the room in tears. I cannot believe my ears. He is unconcerned and wishes our lessons to continue? This is absurd. And I tell him so. He shrugs and dismisses me. Unable to form a coherent retort, I storm off.

* * *

><p>Life is proving torturous for me. I suppose I bring it on myself, partly. During class I have consented to only tease Potter, rather than humiliate. When I do invade his personal space, I find myself lingering a moment too long, brushing against him unnecessarily. We exchange looks, smirks. It does not seem as though anyone else has caught on. Our private lessons are excruciating for me – I can only imagine how they are for him. Not only does our dueling excite me because it shows off his physicality, but our discussions on theories – most especially when we disagree on some point and hotly debate the topic – cause burning in my stomach as well. Some nights I have to dismiss him early because I can't overlook my erection any longer. He has started wearing looser pants. I make my own selfish assumptions about why.<p>

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><p>The battle is over; the victory secured. <em>How<em> is not important, just the fact that it is done. The dead are being buried, the wounded tended to. I've no idea when the nightmares will start, or even if they will ever end, but my relief is so profound that it is overwhelming. I have done my duty, and it is finished. How I ever managed to stay alive through it all will never cease to amaze me.

* * *

><p>Weeks have passed and the school year is over. The release of summer hangs pregnant in the air. I submit my final grades to the old man and make my way back to my office. I stiffen as my hand pauses on the handle; someone is inside. Wand out, I enter the room, cautiously, looking for the intruder. Potter stands leaning against my desk. With an exasperated sigh, I put my wand away. I ask him why he is here, and what he wants. He curves his tempting lips into a half-smile and answers simply: 'You'. I falter in my step, brow raised at him. I assure him that he is mistaken, that his infatuation with me is simply the time-tested crush of student on teacher. I do this to voice my own insecurities as well as to leave him a way out. He assures me that he is not, in fact, mistaken, that I am the only one he has ever wanted – ever since he realized he wanted men; he thanks me for that one. I stand several feet from him, unsure of what to do – a new thing for me, really. He informs me that he has waited; that he is no longer my student or I his teacher; that there is nothing inappropriate any longer. This fact gives me pause – I had forgotten about that. I decide I have faced far more dangerous than this, and take the necessary steps to close the gap between us, taking him in a back-bending embrace, crushing my lips to his, pinning him against my desk. I would love to take him right now, bent over this desk. I harden instantly at the thought. I hear a soft moan in the back of his throat – it goes straight to my groin. I grind my hips into his, pressing him roughly into the wood behind him. He pulls away from me and asks if we could go somewhere more comfortable, but assures me he would be more than happy to make use of the desk another time. I smile inwardly at the thought of multiple times with him.<p>

I assume he isn't referring to the Gryffindor Common Room, so I back away and lead him to my office door. When we enter and he hangs back, I assure him I knew this wasn't what he meant. I wave my wand over the hidden door to my chambers and he gasps when it appears. I smirk. He asks if I can teach him that trick. I drag him into my sitting room and assure him that I can teach him a great many things. On our way to the bedroom, he begins divesting his robes. I chuckle as I see him moving what seems to be as fast as he possibly can, throwing each article of clothing to the floor. Of course he wouldn't be tidy. When we enter the bedroom he is down to just his trousers and before he can work on those I shut the door and pin him to it, capturing his lips in another crushing kiss. I hear him drag a breath through his nose as I begin to caress his tongue with mine. He grasps me and pushes me toward the bed, where I turn and shove him down so I can disrobe. This gives him time to remove his pants and underwear, which he promptly tosses on the floor on the other side of the bed. I snort as I remove my final article of clothing. He puts his glasses on the night stand next to him and I wonder how blurry I've become. I can see him clearly, however, and marvel at his body. Right again in my assumptions, he is well toned and unbelievably gorgeous, his muscles twitching in need. I climb into bed and position myself on top of him, letting my cock run up his leg as my face approaches his. I hear his breath hitch. He pulls me on top of him and we continue our kissing as our hips grind together in a frantic rhythm. I realize that if I don't stop now, I'll finish too soon and I want nothing more than to draw this out as long as possible. I make what I hope will be a correct guess that he will be able to get it up more than once tonight and I pull my lips from his and begin my trek downward. His skin is soft in some places, rough in others. All of it tastes as good as he smells – of the outdoors, fresh air, trees, and grass – no doubt from flying some time earlier today. I reach his crotch and inhale his musky scent, burying my face in his curls. I take his head in my mouth, delighting at the taste of his skin, enjoying the spongy texture. I hear him begging me to finish him. I rather like him begging. But I am not to be rushed. I use my tongue to lick every inch of him as I take him in my mouth, but I am careful not to suck. His hips start to buck into my mouth so I pin his thighs with my upper arms and hold his hips with my hands. He groans in protest and moves his hands to my hair, urging me on. I'm not sure if his enjoyment is due to any expertise on my part or from inexperience on his, but at this point, I don't really care. Avidly aware of my own need, I decide to take mercy on him and take him completely into my mouth, sucking in earnest. If the sounds of incoherency I am hearing from the head of the bed are any indication, I know he isn't far from completion, so I let go of his hips and caress his balls instead, rolling them and pushing them upwards. Sure enough, I'm right again, and three quick thrusts later, he fills my mouth. Ten points to Slytherin. I swallow over and over until I'm sure I've had every last drop, and then I let him slip out of my mouth and make my way back up towards his face, dragging my own aching need against his leg.

Once I'm even with him, I take his lips in a kiss again. His tongue darts into my mouth and I'm sure he can taste himself, but he doesn't seem to mind. I move from his lips to his jaw and across to his earlobe, which I nip gently with my teeth. I realize he's asking me a question. What do I want? I find that a bit odd, but I reassure him I want him. He laughs at me. Brat. No, he is asking how I want him to reciprocate. I tell him I'm more than happy to enjoy whatever he's willing to give. And it's true – I am. I haven't engaged in these activities for far longer than I care to remember, and I'm sure I will enjoy pretty much anything he knows how to do – even if it's just using his hand on me. Anticipation heats my stomach as he tells me he wants to feel me inside of him. I tell him I want that very much. He asks me how long I've wanted to be inside him. I tell him the truth – since the end of his fifth year. I see the wicked glint in his eyes as he calls me a 'naughty Professor'. I swat his arse once he's turned over. He spreads his legs and I settle in between them. I summon the lubricant and coat my hands liberally. Even though I could finish in a few scant seconds, I am determined to make this last. I drag my fingers on his skin lightly. His resultant groan of enjoyment makes the anticipation coil tightly inside me. I tease him and he shifts back to meet me, nearly up on his knees. I push him back down gently. I am absolutely stunned that a creature this magnificent is interested in me. I slide one finger inside and hear an expletive. His desire to thrust his hips back assures me it is not an oath of pain. I side in a second finger and I can feel his prostate. I am expecting another oath when I nudge it. He doesn't disappoint. Another ten points to Slytherin. I slide in a third, and decide I can wait no longer. I withdraw and coat myself and position it at his entrance. He is begging again. It isn't getting old. I take his hips and pull back slightly. He raises himself up onto his hands and knees and sits back as I push myself inside. Holy Fuck he is so tight. So tight and hot. I almost lose it and come immediately, but I control myself. Control is what I do best. He tries to move, but I still him until I am buried inside him to the hilt. Then, I begin my ride. Slowly at first, long and glorious strokes. Then, I hear him saying something – something coherent. He wants me to grab him because he's hard again. I reach around to his front and close my fist around his re-appeared erection. I knew he could get it up twice in one night. Points to Slytherin. I stroke him with the same rhythm I'm using inside him. He's pleading at me. I could get used to this. I begin to move faster, letting my body take over and do what it needs to do. Suddenly, I hear him cry out my name and I feel him come, pulsing over my hand. Hearing my name on his lips is my undoing and with a final thrust, I explode inside him, his muscles clenching around me and sending me into oblivion. Fuck, that was amazing. Our bodies are still jerking involuntarily, but eventually I slip out and flop next to him, covered in sweat. He rolls onto his back and I am on my side, propped up by my elbow. He's already cleaned the sticky mess up. And here I thought he wasn't going to be tidy. Ten points to Gryffindor. He turns onto his side to face me, entangling his legs in mine and throwing his hand over my waist. He is smirking when he says that was a good lesson, but do I really have anything else I can teach him? I pull him into my chest where he snuggles tightly and tell him I have plenty to teach. Enough for a lesson tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that – as long as he wants to learn from me. He burrows his head deep into my shoulder and tells me he endeavors to be a life-long learner.

As we drift off to sleep, my last thought is one of contentment. Finally, after all that I have done in my life – all the agony I've endured and the terror I have experienced – I am finally getting a small piece of the happiness that I deserve.


End file.
